The Red

by Linda Nagata

  “You’re delivering the first cyborg, Flynn.”

  She gives me a nervous glance up and down, but I’m wearing my service uniform and she can’t see the prosthetics. “You, sir?”

  “Me.”

  “You look human, sir.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh.

  • • • •

  Officially, Colonel Kendrick is the commanding officer of C -FHEIT, but he’s not present at the facility. Hardly anyone is. By the time Flynn parks the SUV in front of the barracks, a handful of personnel have emerged—one officer and four enlisted. They assemble in a line to greet me. “That’s all of us,” she says. “Except Private Johnson. He must be on watch in the TOC.”

  The officer in charge is Major Keith Chen, a lean, gray-haired, PhD kinesiologist whose assignment is to figure out how to train a cyborg like me. Everyone else has a shaved head and wears LCS insignia.

  Chen introduces me to Sergeant Aaron Nolan, our ranking non-com. Nolan is a big man, almost as big as Ransom, with a round face, a flat nose, and sun-darkened skin. He wears a skullcap beneath his patrol cap. So do the two specialists. All three are combat veterans. The privates are rookies. They’re not wearing skullcaps, but their heads are shaved.

  “Kendrick has handpicked everyone here,” Chen tells me after he dismisses the staff. “You know the LCS motto—Innovation, Coordination, Inspiration. Kendrick is going over personnel records and psych profiles to put together elite teams exemplifying those virtues.”

  “I thought this was a training center for cyborged soldiers.”

  “Every LCS soldier is cyborged. You’ve just pushed it a little further than most. Your task is to prove you can be field ready by the end of this training period. The rest of us are here to support you. It’s a worthwhile investment, given that a potential billion-dollar program is riding on your success.”

  “No pressure then.”

  He gives me an amused look. “I thought you’d already met Colonel Kendrick.”

  Inside the barracks, everything is shining and new. Officers’ quarters are on the second floor. There are six suites. Chen occupies one, I get another. The rest are empty.

  “We got here the middle of last week,” Chen tells me. “That’s when the contractors officially turned over the facility.”

  We walk over to the Cyber Center, where he shows me offices, classrooms, and conference rooms. At least half the floor space hasn’t been developed yet. “There are plans for electronics workshops equipped with 3-D printers,” Chen tells me. “Also, some highly specialized medical facilities, if funding comes through.”

  The Cyber Center also has a kitchen, though there’s no kitchen staff. The setup is exactly like Fort Dassari, with premanufactured microwave meals that everyone prepares for themselves.

  Over lunch he talks about my role. “You’re our first soldier with integrated prosthetics. I don’t know what you can do, and you don’t know what you can do. You’re here to define the baseline. I’m here to help you.”

  We start at 1400 that afternoon. I dress in army T-shirt and shorts, then debate the athletic shoes. Technically, they’re uniform, but I’m defining the cyborg baseline and I decide they’re not required.

  Flynn has rotated to desk duty. There’s a startled look on her face as she takes in my legs.

  “Still mostly human,” I assure her.

  She nods, though I’m not sure she believes me.

  • • • •

  I meet Chen at the gym, a huge structure, mostly empty. Auxiliary rooms are stocked with resistance machines, but the main floor is a blank slate: padded and carpeted, with a climbing wall on one side but nothing else.

  Chen is dressed like me in T-shirt and shorts, but he’s got shoes on. He frowns at my robot feet and then looks up at me for an explanation. I give him my argument, showing him the way the foot works, how it can extend either forward and back, or laterally. I have to concentrate to make it do what I want.

  “Is it hard for you to control the fine movement?” he asks.

  “I haven’t practiced it much. People get disturbed by it. Makes me look like a fucking alien.”

  “The uncanny valley,” he muses.

  I don’t know the term, but before I can access my encyclo­pedia, Chen gives me his definition.

  “���The uncanny valley’ is a term for the revulsion most people feel when faced with things, especially animate things, that are almost-but-not-quite human. It comes out of the robotics field, from observations of typical reactions to humanlike robots. Classic prosthetics face the same problem.” He nods at my feet. “You’ll get it worse, because your limbs are animate and seem almost to be alive.”

  “You know the guy who designed them? Joby Nakagawa?”

  “I’ve seen his work. I’ve never met him.”

  “You wouldn’t want to. He’s a jerk. But I can assure you that making these legs appeal to the sensibilities of my fellow soldiers did not enter into his design philosophy. He was aiming for function, above and beyond human if he could get it.”

  “Let’s see if he got it. We’ll start simple. You’ve learned to walk again, and with an almost natural gait. But can you run?”

  • • • •

  I start slowly, an easy trot. It’s a lot different from walking. My knees bend too far. So do my ankles. I lose control of my balance, overcompensate, and fall. I’m not used to falling. It’s embarrassing and frustrating, and it happens over and over again. I get way too familiar with the coarse weave of the gym’s utilitarian carpet.

  “What happens if I fail?” I ask Chen. I’m lying on my back after my latest tumble, grimacing at the bruising in my arms and shoulders, despite the padded floor. The ceiling looks a mile high.

  Chen stands over me, not at all impressed with my drama­tics. “It’s way too early to talk about failure.”

  “Do they take the legs away? Splice them onto someone else? Or do they kill the program?”

  “There’s a lot of corporate investment backing integrated prosthetics. You’ll have to work hard to defund it all by yourself.”

  “So they’ll just take my legs away.” It makes me sick to think of being taken apart.

  “I’m going to take your legs away if you don’t get up and start using them.”

  I study his face and I’m not entirely sure he’s joking. So I get up and try again.

  Over dinner, Chen urges me not to get discouraged. “What you’re going through right now is a biological process. The bioelectric interface is encouraging your body to produce finer connections and selectively strengthening those that work best. Like any process of growth, it’s going to take time, but keep at it, and you’ll get the best possible control of your legs.”

  “What does ‘possible’ mean?” I ask, using a roll to capture stray gravy from my packaged pot roast. “How much of my natural motion will I get back?”

  “That’s for you to figure out.”

  “Because no one’s ever done this before?”

  “Right. The simulations I’ve seen suggest a wide range of possible outcomes.”

  I don’t want possibilities. I want promises. “What range of movement were these legs designed for?”

  “If they’re hooked up to a computer and run with an adaptive motion program, they’re able to imitate everything a healthy man can do and then some. It’s not the mechanics that are going to limit you, Shelley. It’s the interface with your nerves, your fine motor control. That’s the part we know the least about, but the potential is there. It’s the adaptive element of the system—and the most unpredictable. Simulations have been developed, but the data’s incomplete.” His eyes narrow. “So it’s up to you to figure out what you can do.”

  I hiss, grab another roll, and demand, “If Masoud can regrow my nerves, why the fuck didn’t he just grow me a new set of legs? Or hasn’t
he figured that trick out yet?”

  “Check back in a couple of years. Civilian labs are hot on the trail, and the army will buy in if it looks worthwhile.” He takes a long drink of water and then gives me a thoughtful look. “My own opinion, though? If it takes months or years to regrow a limb, the army won’t go for it. Besides, Command might prefer titanium soldiers with replaceable parts.”

  I lean back in my chair and stare at him. “I hate to say this, but that sounds absolutely plausible to me.”

  • • • •

  I don’t fall down as much the next day, and the day after that I rarely fall at all—but I’m only running in a straight line.

  “Make a circuit of the gym floor,” Chen tells me.

  I do it, concentrating as I take the first corner, but I set my inside foot down too hard and send myself staggering into the wall.

  “Ease up!” Chen shouts. “Stop thinking about it and just run.”

  I don’t listen. At the next corner I focus on getting each step correct. This means I slow down. I’m going barely faster than a walk as I precisely place my feet. Suddenly Chen’s in front of me. I have to throw myself hard to the side so I don’t run into him.

  “Diagonal!” he shouts. “Across the gym. Move! ”

  I trained long and hard under a voice like that and I jump to obey, just like he knew I would. I’m halfway across the gym floor before I realize I haven’t fallen down.

  “Cut right! Now! ” Chen’s parade-ground voice echoes off the ceiling.

  I do it.

  “Now, faster!”

  I lift my knees, lengthen my stride—and stop thinking about every little motion. I take it on faith that I can do this, and within a few bounding steps, I’m across the gym. It feels good; it feels easy. I want more. Anticipation rises inside me. “I’m going outside.”

  Chen is demanding, but he’s no martinet. He makes a do-as-you-will gesture, following me as I head for the door.

  It’s getting to be midmorning. The Texas sun blazes against the concrete quad, but it’s early October already and the air is cool. No one’s around. Only the flag is in motion, snapping in a breeze out of the south.

  I start off jogging along the road toward the Cyber Center. My pace is slow; I know it’s really going to hurt if I fall on the asphalt. But after the first fifty meters, I’m bored, so I add a little speed . . . and soon, I add a little more.

  It’s like I’m running downhill. I feel a joyous momentum. I’ve always loved to run, especially middle distances, ten, twelve miles. These new legs don’t weigh nearly as much as the old, leaving me so light on my feet I think maybe I could run those distances again.

  I lope in front of the Cyber Center, round the bend toward the barracks, and take off sprinting.

  That’s when I know it’s not just the lightness of my new legs. I can feel them magnifying my momentum. Just like a dead sister, they’re dumping more recoil into my strides as my speed goes up—a simulated downhill run where the steepness of the virtual slope increases with my speed. I’m no cyborg superhero—a trained sprinter would still leave me in the dust—but after having my legs blown off, running fast again is intoxicating, and for a few seconds I only think about my stride, not where I’m going. By the time I look up, the low wall at the facility entrance is looming in front of me. It’s too late to stop. My only choice is to go up and over.

  My right foot kicks off the top of the wall, then I plunge down into tall grass on the other side. My arms windmill as I fight to keep my balance, but it doesn’t quite work. I crash into the crackling grass as an explosion of dust and locusts takes off around me.

  I end up on my back again, my heart beating so hard it’s about to explode out my ears. My chest is heaving, and my hips and thighs feel like jelly. Searing pain rises up my spliced bones, feeding into my spine. I glance at the icon that controls feedback from the legs and it brightens, but I look away without adjusting it. The pain feels necessary after what I just did. It makes the experience real.

  I blink against a blue sky that’s so bright my eyes start to water. Wind hisses through the grass but doesn’t mask the rhythm of running footsteps drawing closer.

  “Shelley!” Chen shouts as he rounds the wall.

  I’m hidden in the grass, so I raise my hand. “I’m here.”

  He crashes toward me, a shadow blocking out the brightness of the sky. “What the hell? Are you hurt?”

  I grin. “I didn’t think I’d ever run like that again.”

  “Did you hit your head?” He drops to his knees beside me.

  “I’m okay. I just . . . burned out my organics, I guess.” I make myself sit up. “Geez, my thighs are trembling.”

  “Poor conditioning,” Chen concludes. “You can start with a mile run after sunset. We’ll add on distance from there.”

  • • • •

  Over the next ten days I learn to jump, to shuttle, to crawl, and to scale the rock-climbing wall inside the gym. And every day Chen straps on his shoes and goes with me on a predawn distance run, always pushing me to go farther, until we make eight miles: halfway to the boundary fence and back.

  It’s not all agility and conditioning. C -FHEIT is eight miles from the county road, out in the middle of nowhere, which means that, in the event of a terrorist attack, there is no one around to defend us except ourselves. So I’m issued a new helmet and exoskeleton, and I learn the code to the weapons and ammo lockers, practicing it until I can use the skullnet to open them with a thought. Then, because I have combat experience and Chen doesn’t, he assigns me the collateral duty of directing defensive operations, since—as the administrator at Kelly AMC pointed out to me—domestic terrorism is always a possibility.

  We already have a defense plan, set up and ably directed by Sergeant Nolan, so I just familiarize myself with procedures and train along with everyone else in an emergency response that depends almost exclusively on shoulder-­launched missiles, since that’s the heaviest armament linked combat squads ever use.

  Beyond that, I’m behind on some of my leadership qualifications, which means virtual classroom time. And then there are the sessions with a visiting shrink who wants to know how I’m handling the trauma of mutilation. I tell him the truth: I’m not handling it at all. The skullnet is, and that’s fine with me.

  Every night I fall into bed so exhausted I have about thirty seconds to miss Lissa before sleep pulls me under.

  Maybe that’s the skullnet too.

  • • • •

  “How do you feel about other people seeing you?” the shrink asks me. “Are you self-conscious or ashamed to be seen as a cyborg?”

  “Why?” I demand suspiciously. “Are more personnel finally being rotated in?” I know I’m not going anywhere, because I’m not even halfway through my six-week term.

  He doesn’t like my second-guessing. “Are you anxious about that?”

  I consider it. The handful of enlisted already at C -FHEIT spent two days avoiding me, and when they couldn’t get away with it anymore, they tried very hard not to notice my legs—until I made them notice. I had them examine the prosthetics, showing them how the joints worked and how the foot stretched. At first they were embarrassed, but the intricate mechanics are fascinating and they were drawn in. After that, they learned to relax around me, and the prosthetics didn’t command much attention—until I started my speed training. Then they would gather to watch my workouts when they could, and I’m fairly sure bets were made on how fast I could run.

  I answer the shrink’s question. “The legs are just another piece of equipment for the enlisted to get used to. If any of them can’t handle the idea, I’ll send them to you.”

  To my astonishment, he actually cracks a smile.

  • • • •

  I step out of the barracks, Chen right behind me. We’re heading for dinner in the little cafeteria at
the Cyber Center. The sun has set, but a long blue twilight is lingering. Somewhere far off a coyote howls. As the sound fades, I hear the faint thrum of a distant engine. It sounds like a helicopter to me.

  I look at Chen. He shakes his head and pulls out his phone, knowing no more than I do.

  Maybe it’s just a civilian craft out by the county road, but until I’ve got a confirmed ID, there’s a protocol to follow. I go back into the barracks. Inside, PFC Flynn is manning the tactical operations center behind the desk.

  “Known air traffic approaching?” I ask her.

  She looks confused—“Traffic, sir?”—and turns to scan the monitors.

  A mechanical wailing erupts as the perimeter alarm goes off.

  “Unidentified helicopter incoming!” she shouts.

  I’m already halfway up the stairs to my room, where my gear is stashed. It takes me ninety seconds to rig up in armor and bones. I pull the helmet on as I head out the door and automatically I’m linked into our LCS.

  A glance gives me the positions of my soldiers. Four are still in quarters; two are outside, running for the barracks. We’ve practiced this all before.

  I bound down the stairs, managing not to fall down. The first rigged soldier hits the lobby at the same time I do. His visor is opaque black, but on my display he’s identified as Specialist Samuel Tuttle. I visualize the code to the weapons locker and it clicks open.

  “Confirm gen-com.”

  “Gen-com confirmed, sir!”

  “Defensive action. Fire on command only.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Delphi is suddenly with me. “Status report, Shelley.”

  I’m so startled I almost drop the missile launcher that I just pulled from the rack. “Shit, Delphi!” This is the first time she’s been inside my head since Africa.

  I shove the weapon at Tuttle and he sprints out the door.

  “What’s your status?” Delphi insists.

  “We’ve got an unidentified helicopter approaching. No clearance. Setting up our defense.”

  “Logged,” she notes, and goes away.